


Of Victory Waiting

by niftynoctule



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age - Freeform, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Freeform, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, In Your Heart Shall Burn, Loss, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:05:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niftynoctule/pseuds/niftynoctule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let the blade pass through flesh,<br/>Let my blood touch the ground,<br/>Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."<br/>- <i> Andraste 7:12 </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He always had trouble sleeping. The nightmares woke him, clouded his mind. Tonight, he tried to clear the storm in his head, but discovered that the skies above Haven were just as overcast as his thoughts. The Breach hung over him in his mental landscape as much as it did in the physical one. The sickening green light it cast illuminated the snow, and without sunlight to counter its effects, the Breach was always most threatening in the dark.

And Haven was dark. It was so early in the morning that it could still be counted as night. Everyone had gone to bed hours ago. The fire in front of the Chantry was extinguished, and so were the lights of the cottages. The only fires still lit were those in the hills, signal fires where he imagined Leliana's scouts swapped tales of their exploits and joined in camaraderie. That was what he missed the most: the friendship borne from repeated trials by fire, and the companionship felt by brothers-in-arms. He was too big for their fellowship now. He was a leader, the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. He must bear that standard, and raise it high. If he faltered, if he stumbled...he would lose their respect. He would lose himself.

Had the cloud cover cleared, the stars would potentially wink and glitter from the heavens, and perhaps their light would make him feel small, in a good way. It would make him feel like a lotus seed in the surf; so small that he would be carried away from his troubles and drift into a dreamless sleep.

But tonight, with that _thing_ lurking above them, with the clouds spinning lazily in nauseating spirals, he felt small in only the bad ways. In a powerless sort of way. In the way that his nightmares made him feel: anxious. Anxious and _waiting._ Waiting for something to happen; waiting for a miracle...or for death.

Tomorrow would be the end of waiting. The mages had arrived and, with their help, they would assault the Breach. The Herald would attempt to close it whilst their new allies would support her. Regardless of assurances that the mages were really here to help, something in the back of Cullen's mind pained him. He remembered the events of the Circle Tower during the Blight, and the memory made him nervous. What if it happened again? With the Veil torn open, the mages could only be considered a risk.

 _She_ had offered the rebel mages a full alliance at Redcliffe, and although he had been angry and harsh with her in the war room, he couldn’t help but feel anything short of admiration for her, despite his fears. She had taken his verbal assault without batting an eye. She did not flinch when he raised his voice. She did not lose her temper. She waited. She waited and watched him with her steady gaze and tracked the movements of his face with her brown eyes. When he was done, she defended her actions, quietly, calmly, rationally. She did not mention any of her personal reasons. With her, everything must be of use to the ultimate goals of the group, or risk being tossed aside. He knew her tells, though. He had seen them often enough. The tips of her ears were brushed with pink, and her jaw had clenched while he shouted at her, and the corners of her lips had turned down slightly to indicate her displeasure. When she spoke, although her demeanor was calm, her voice trembled slightly, and that betrayed her true feelings to him. And then she had walked away, her rage seething under her pale skin, making itself known in the way she clenched her fists at her sides and in the stiffness of her stride.

He had not seen her since then. She did not appear in the yard to watch the soldiers training; she did not come to him with her questions, Maker, so many questions. They ranged from innocuous ( _What is Kirkwall like? Varric’s from Kirkwall too, isn’t he? What was it like, serving in a Circle?_ ) to less so ( _Are templars expected to give up...physical temptations?_ ), making him blush and stumble over his words.  She did not take her leave from him by weaving through the sparring soldiers, as she usually did. Whenever she danced through the din of clattering steel, his heart caught in his throat. He worried that one of the recruits would make a bad step and hurt her, either with a blade or a shield. He was constantly surprised at how important she was becoming to him, not just as the Herald of Andraste, but as a...friend? He didn’t know.

The snow crunched under his feet as he made his way down the stairs from the apothecary. As he rounded the corner, he saw firelight flickering from the tavern windows. It was inviting and warm, and curiosity prickled his mind. It was unusual for someone else to be awake at this hour.

He approached the tavern, trying to peek in through the windows, but the gradient of warmth from the inside against the stark cold of the Frostbacks manifested itself in foggy glass. He could only make out the vaguest of shapes, and their silhouettes danced against the bright flames and distorted in condensation.

Unsated, he opened the tavern door.  A winter wind gushed in before him, and papers flew everywhere, followed by a string of surprised Elvish phrases spoken so forcefully that he could only assume they were curses. He closed the door quickly behind him.

The Herald of Andraste knelt on the tavern floor, trying to pick up dozens of leaves. She turned her head and, upon recognizing him, turned away again, hunching her shoulders and maintaining a deadly silence.

He strode to her, kneeling beside her. "I'm so sorry, Herald. Let me help."

She sighed. "It's fine, Cullen, don't worry about it."

He continued to help her anyway, gathering her work, and noticing sketches of plants and animals, each with something written about them in a neat handwriting. He had read books on Thedas's natural history before, but unlike the stiff and mechanical drawings that filled their pages, these drawings were lively and seemed to capture the creatures' essences rather than just their bodies. "These are quite good," he said aloud, more to himself than to anyone in particular.

"You don't have to— thank you. " Genuine surprise colored her voice.

He looked at her face. Was she...blushing? Perhaps it was just the firelight. She tucked a strand of her red-gold hair behind her ear, eyes cast down, as she gathered the last of the papers and stood up. He followed, handing them to her.

"Cullen, I'm sorry about earlier.  Maybe I should have conscripted the mages instead, or gone to the Templars..."

 _She_ was apologizing to _him?_

"I'm the one who should apologize, Herald, I—”

"Feraleth."

"What?"

"I wish you would address me by my name, Cullen."

Now color rose to his cheeks and he hoped she thought it was just the fire. He tried to smile only slightly, but he could feel a lopsided grin spilling out over his face. " _Feraleth_ , I'm the one who should be apologizing. I let my fears get the best of me, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry. I will not endanger the alliance you've brokered, I swear it."

She smiled back at him. They stood there for a moment, just grinning. He rubbed the back of his neck, self-consciously. Feraleth shifted uneasily.

"Flissa left some mead, if you want to stay. You can keep me company while I work on this. Of course, only if you want to— you don't have to or anything."

"Of course I will." _Maker's breath_ , was that too eager? Anxiety bubbled in his chest. He cleared his throat, "I mean, only if you want me to. " Maybe she was just being kind and offering out of a sense of obligation?  He didn't want to press her if she really just wanted to be alone. He was suddenly very glad that they were alone and that nobody would make eyes at him later for being such a fool around her. On the other hand, they were _alone_.

"I do." She said, pulling out a chair for him to sit on. She placed the stack of papers on the table, and left them to get a mug for him.

"I can do that."

She gave him a look. "Don't be silly. I invited you to stay, so I can get the mead. Sit."

He did as she bid him, shifting uncomfortably in his armor. Leafing through her pages, his fingers wandered past the star charts and diagrams of astariums, through the maps and names of landmarks, drawings of locations ( _Witchwood...Redcliffe…_ ), and sketches of rifts and notes on the natures of demons. He looked up when she set a mug before him.  “Thank you, H— Feraleth.”

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly and drew his attention to the constellations of freckles that brimmed on her cheeks. She sat down in the seat next to his, gesturing her head towards the pages. “I’ve been working on… a codex, of sorts. To keep track of things I encounter. Maybe it will prove useful to someone else one day.” She sighed, and began to reorder them. He noticed that she glanced furtively at some of the leaflets and placed them face down and far away from him. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else at this hour. Why are you awake?”

He opened his mouth, to lie, to say, _no reason_ , to assure her that he was perfectly capable and not at all in pain. But then, looking at her open face, her honest, earthen eyes and the way her pale blue tattoos crowned her forehead and trailed down her cheeks, he couldn’t bring himself to. Something in him demanded honesty and openness to match her own. “I...have nightmares.”

“Oh,” she said. “Are they bad?” She blanched, blushing and apologetic. “I’m sorry. Of course they are. How stupid of me.” She looked at him with concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He wanted to cover her fidgeting hands with his own, to say, _Don’t worry, you’re wonderful_. He did not. “You have greater things to worry about than my sleeping habits.” At her crestfallen look, he worried that he said the wrong thing. “I’ll be fine,” he said, lamely. Andraste’s ass, this was harder than he remembered. He attempted to redirect the conversation. “Do you have nightmares too? Is that why you’re awake?”

“I don’t dream anymore,” she said with a shrug. “Not since I fell out of the Fade.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. _Stupid._

“Don’t be.” She laid down the stack of papers, which were apparently all in order, once again. “It’s nothing compared to nightmares, I’m sure.”

He knew she was like this. She often tried to downplay her suffering, to give what she could to the Inquisition, regardless of her own feelings on the matter. He saw it at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when they first met. She made no promises, no premature declarations of victory. She only swore that she would try to help in whatever way she could. And she did. And she would do so again.

“Are you anxious about closing the Breach tomorrow?” he asked, tracking her face. She was an expert at concealing her feelings, and if there was emotion to be gleaned from her face, he wanted to find it.

Only a faint impression of doubt flitted across her pointed features, for a brief moment. He saw it in the downturn of her brows, before it disappeared. "It will be fine," she said, giving him a tiny smile. “It’s nothing to worry about.” The attempt at reassurance almost convinced him, except for the way her forehead creased and in the darkness of her eyes.

"You don’t need to pretend for my sake."

Her smile quickly faded, her eyebrows furrowed, and her slender ears fell. Her face paled and he was worried that she might be ill. She sighed, covering her face with her hands. “I’m just— I’m terrified.”

Her confession was so forthcoming and honest that he wondered just how long she had been waiting to confide in someone, anyone.

"You will do your best, I'm sure of it." And he was. He did not know anyone nearly as selfless and as consumed with compassion as she was. The reports he received from the Hinterlands spoke admirably of the Herald's attentiveness to helping the refugees, oft times going out of her way to bring food and healing herbs to the hungry and sick. Only Andraste herself could compete with the quiet elf, he was certain.

She gazed into the flames, her face pensive and her voice small. "What if my best isn't good enough?"

“It will be.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” He watched her as she stared at her hands. Her left hand cast an eerily familiar green light. It illuminated her face, slightly, and gave a hollow and ghastly look her to brooding and critical expression. His response did not satisfy her.

“I wish I could share the strength of your faith, Commander.”

Back to titles again. She was being diplomatic.

Despite the protestations of his nerves, he took her small hands into his own, blocking out the rift in her palm. She glanced up at him, and he saw color rush to her cheeks. He felt his own burning as well. It was most definitely not just the firelight.

“We can’t ask for anything more than what you can give. And, knowing you, you will give everything you can. Your best is enough. You are enough.”

Her flushed face deepened in hue. She glanced down at their hands, biting her bottom lip. Was she suppressing a smile? She stood, and he stood up as well. “Thank you, Cullen. That's very sweet.”

To his surprise, she moved in close to him. Her scent, heady and intoxicating, like thick honey and mountain air, filled his nose and made him feel warm. Rising up on the tips of her toes, she planted a light kiss just below the curve of his cheekbone. “You’re a better friend than anyone could hope for.”

She dropped his hands, gathered her pages, and left quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear shyly as she went. He gazed in her wake long after the door had closed behind her. A warmth settled over his limbs and nestled down near his heart.

 _Maker’s breath._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of "In Your Heart Shall Burn". This has been sitting on my computer forever and I'm tired of looking at it, so here you go. Also, unbeta'd, since I lack a beta.

The flames of the campfire glowed outside the tent. Whenever someone walked between the two, their shadows would stretch and arc across the canvas, but he paid no mind.

After they had sent the signal, a flaming arrow in the darkness, the Herald's party rejoined them. Their faces were dark and brimming with despair. Cassandra told him that Feraleth told them to flee when the Archdemon landed. It wasn't long afterwards that they heard the terrible rumble of a mountain falling and they watched in horror as the avalanche smothered Haven. The piercing screech of the Archdemon let them know that their enemy had escaped.

But what about their savior?

It was Cassandra's idea to go and look for the Herald, after the snow settled and the shifting ice ceased. The winds howled beyond the camp when they set off once more into the frigid night.

Cullen found her first, seeing the tiny pulse of a faint green light. As he trudged forward, arm over his brow to block the roaring gale, he saw her stumble, and then sink into the snow, her head bowing in exhaustion. _There!  It's her!_

_Thank the Maker!_

He dropped to his own knees before her, removing his surcoat and wrapping it around her small shoulders. _Cullen?_ Her voice was barely audible above the keening wind.

 _You're going to be okay_ , he said as he tucked an arm under her knees and wrapped another around her back. He lifted them both from the snow, and barely heard Cassandra's shout, a cry for healers.

Her hair was wild and covered in hoarfrost, and he saw that streaky tears had frozen to her face. Her lips and ears were bluish and her eyelashes and eyebrows had tiny icicles fused to them.

 _Cullen..._ Her breathing was shallow and raspy. Her head rolled against him.  
  
 _I’m here. I’ve got you._ Cullen curled her closer into his chest, trying to keep her from the ravages of the wintry maelstrom. Her breath made small, foggy streaks on the shine of his breastplate. Not hopeful, but it was something. She lived, at the very least.

Frostbite, hypothermia, broken bones, pulled ligaments, lacerations, bruising, a probable concussion and undoubtedly internal bleeding. The healers had done what they could. Solas and Dorian lent their skills to the healers as well, patching up what would certainly kill her. _It was up to her now,_ the healers had said, looking at him with the saddest eyes. He willed away their pity. She would live. She _would_. She had to.

If she didn’t— no. He refused to consider it.

Cullen had stayed by her side. This was his fault, after all. He’d sent her to die.

_The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next._

Just last night, he sat in Haven’s tavern, and they talked. They’d shared smiles and stories and fears, and, _Maker_ , she’d kissed him. She was so vibrant, so present. All she wanted was to do her best. She was so frightened that she wouldn’t.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._

But she did. She had given them everything, a chance to live... and it might cost her the same. It was odd to think that this could be the last time he’d be near her. If she— if she didn’t—

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light._

One of her hands had fallen off the cot, and dangled where he could see it. The tips of her fingers were red and yellow and swollen from the cold when they’d found her. They had been thawed and bandaged since then, but they looked painful. Her hands were so warm last night, wrapped in his own. Carefully, he lifted her hand, and tucked it back near her body and under her blankets.

_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her—_

If she were awake, she’d probably tell him that it wasn’t his fault. She’d try to take the blame for herself. Andraste, she tried so hard. How could anyone carry such a heavy burden?

And yet, she had offered herself up as a willing sacrifice. _I would give myself to save Haven_ , she said. When she asked him if he could lead the villagers out, he hadn’t entirely comprehended her implications. _What of your escape?_ By her silence, he had known that she did not plan on surviving. He allowed a hair’s breadth of hope to linger between them. _Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way…_ It was foolish to allow himself this.

_And she will know no fear of death—_

Someone was grieving outside, singing the mourner’s chant. It was distant, but it cut through the silence like a knife. He gazed upon her face. Her cheeks were burnt from the wind and snow, but her expression was a peaceful one, and color was slowly returning to her lips and ears. Something akin to hope kindled in his breast.

_For the Maker shall be her beacon and shield, her foundation and her sword._

He allowed his head to fall into the palms of his hands. If she didn’t live—

“Cullen?”

His head snapped up. Her voice was soft, and crackly like eggshells. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “I’m here.” He left his seat to kneel at her side.

Brown eyes scanning the inside of the tent, heavy lidded and bleary, she finally rested her gaze on his face. “I’m sure glad to see you.” She furrowed her brows at him, squinting. “It is you, right? Creators, everything is blurry.” She gave him a weak smile, but genuine, before shutting her eyes once again. “Still, I’m glad.”

He chuckled, and he felt hot, stinging tears falling from his eyes, unbidden. “As am I.”


End file.
